


Rather Trying

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, fuck the finale, our favourite witnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:10:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on an Anon prompt to my Tumblr account: </p><p>"Hi there! I'm a huge fan of your SH fanfics! I don't know if you're still taking prompts but I'll try anyway...I was thinking about something like your fic "Action" but instead of Abbie, we have a jealous Crane :D"</p><p>Two times Ichabod got jealous, and the third time, when he did something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rather Trying

**1.**

To say Ichabod had noticed that Miss Mills was pretty would be to say that he found the 2016 penchant for skinny jeans "slightly perturbing."

He had noticed, indeed. The main problem with this was that  _so had every other gentleman in the general vicinity._

And they, to his mind, were not all gentlemen.

For example, the salesman who was now trying to talk the delectable Abbie into buying a new car. Oh, she needed one, that much was certain. But was part of the man's role to touch her arm when he made a salient point? Did he had to lean so close to her?

The hell of it - the seventh circle of hell, to be precise - was that she did not seem to mind.

Whereas Ichabod rather fancied running the cad through with a spear he had recently found in the back of the Archives. Perhaps he'd use two spears. The image made him feel marginally better.

**2.**

The Lieutenant had invited him along to the firing range with Agent Reynolds. He had insisted that he knew how to fire a gun more than competently, indeed, he was well versed in most firearms in the two years he had been living in the hereafter, but Miss Mills had been quite persistent. And he could, as ever, deny her nothing, when she looked up at him with those large, deep brown eyes.

However proficient Ichabod himself was with a firearm, the Lieutenant's skill was greater. 

Therefore, he  _truly_ failed to see why Agent Reynolds needed to stand so close to her. The man's proximity was practically indecent as he advised Miss Mills -  _Abbie, his Abbie, as he couldn't stop thinking of her, lately -_ on the correct position from which to fire.

In the 1780s she would have had a proper chaperone, wouldn't have had to endure another man's hands on her hips as he widened her stance, as he put his mouth close to her neck, his breath ruffling her hair-

Ichabod cursed, calling himself nine kinds of ruffian for the thoughts now merrily parading through his mind.  _God's wounds._ He should not have these feelings about his fellow Witness.

But he did. And his hand was becoming a _very_ poor substitute for her touch.

**3.**

"I'm going for coffee," Abbie called out as she grabbed her keys from the kitchen island of their home.

Ichabod looked up from the Sumarian manuscript he was in the middle of translating. It was so dry that a bucket of water poured on the page would not have helped a great deal. "Oh yes?"

"Yeah. With Morales. Do you remember him at all? He's back in town. Wants to shoot the breeze."

"I'd like to shoot him," Ichabod muttered.

"What?"

He jerked his head up, not realising that he had spoken aloud. "Ah - nothing. This Sumerian is rather trying."

She appeared at his elbow. "That isn't what you said."

As close as she was, he could see the gold shot through the brown of her irises. The tempting shape of her lips. She smelled like wildflowers - a scent that should have been impossible with so many cars and buildings nearby.

"Forgive me." He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think dutifully of the Archives and of their mission together. "I.."

She touched his face. "Crane, you've been like a bear with a sore head for weeks now. For God's sake, get it out in the open, or I swear-"

He never found out what she would have sworn to do. She never finished the sentence, because he stood up, the chair scraping back, and yanked her into a fierce embrace, his mouth crushing down on hers. She opened for him, willingly, and he thrust a hand into her hair, the softness of her like water to a man dying of thirst. The little mewl of submission she eeked out fired his blood, cracking open the yawning chasm of desire for her that had been slowly eating at him.

She never did make the coffee date.

 

 

 


End file.
